What They Left Behind
by betatheta
Summary: Freelancers never take off their helmets. Being in the middle of a war surrounded by people who do the same, well, it helps with not raising too many questions. Plus, hanging out with the reds and blues... let's just say they're not a very observant bunch. Unless there's food involved. So, what walks like a human, talks like a human, but is nothing like you or I?
1. Prologue

War was endless. You hear things about war at some point or another. Terrible things. The horrors that take place in prisons. The fear of losing your friends. The experiences of the soldier as they pulled the trigger, as they killed. How fights of freedom turned to that of domination. Leaders rising and falling, each claiming to have a way to improve life, and some leaders who never gave what they promised when they had the power. Then eventually another war breaks out. And it starts all over again. Horrors, fears, soldiers blind, leaders lie. It was on an endless cycle, and no matter how far you ran you could not escape it.

But that doesn't mean no one ever tried.

They weren't human. He wasn't sure what they were exactly but he saw them act and he saw potential, a means to an end. They could do things humans couldn't, and they had come such a long way from home it would be rude not to show them kindness. Like all great leaders do at one point, he lied. He manipulated them into thinking that this was their war as well, even though it was solely that of human origin. That they could help the greater good, that they could make a difference for the people.

They were tired of running from inevitable war and a leader who would snuff them out as soon as possible, that they took his "kindness". Like all soldiers do at one point, they followed blind. They fought for him. In what they thought were acts of freedom killed many. Good and evil was only a perspective. The only thing that was certain was that they were effective.

So, Project Freelancer was born, and a whole new war began.


	2. Sleep Is For The Weak

"Who the hell ate my chicken nuggets?!"

Washington awoke with a groan from his spot on the couch. He reached up to cradle his helmeted head in his armored hands. He never did like waking up. It made him feel gross, and what he guessed being hungover felt like in a way.

If there was anything Wash hated more than waking up, it was the concept of sleeping. You close your eyes, you become vulnerable to any attack against your person, all the while your consciousness floats around in a made up land in your head where nothing is bound by the laws of the universe and you are in control of nothing. It was horrifying to experience. And apparently people liked it. It was weird.

In conclusion: sleeping sucked and he hated it.

But on another note: the waking world also really sucked right now and he hated it.

 _"You."_ A large armored orange finger was shoved up against his visor, catching him by surprise.

' _Reflexes slow,'_ he noted, ' _another effect of waking up.'_

 _"Did you eat my chicken nuggets? You chicken nugget thief. You disgust me."_ The man in orange looked at him in what he assumed was shame, but his helmet blocked any view of his face.

"Grif, rest assured that I would never touch your 3 week old, unrefrigerated chicken nuggets even if it was the last food left in this base. I happen to love my body and I do not want to die."

"Yeah I could totally beat you if I actually tried."

"I was more talking about the nuggets killing me but believe what you want."

"Fuck off, asshole." Grif walked back to the broken refrigerator that was mainly just food storage at this point. A place to keep all the stuff until it started growing mould. "Hey Wash, I'm stealing your portion of Monday's leftovers."

"Yeah, so long as you don't throw it up again at training." Wash said as he remembered last time Grif stole his leftovers. It was messy and probably one of the nastiest things that he'd seen around here. Who knew someone's vomit could turn bright purple when exposed to alien sunlight?

"Yeah, whatever." It might as well have been a ' _I'm not actually going to show again, just like the past 4 days.'_ Grif looked at the food on Wash's section. "Jeez, do you even ever eat anything? I swear that is Donut's curry experiment from last month back there."

"I just don't eat as much as you do."

It was the truth too, just a bit stretched. He never actually ate anything. He would make himself scarce at mealtimes, not that anyone would notice. Maybe they did, but they never said anything about it. Thing was, he didn't _need_ to eat. Sure, he tried eating a few times back in Project Freelancer, but it was gross. Like sleeping and waking up.

Still, he managed to keep up the appearance of being normal thanks to the unobservant group he was currently in a team with. They would all eat his food behind his back, except Grif who was pretty upfront about it, and assume what they personally didn't eat was eaten by Wash or Grif. It was a pretty good system.

"You gotta have some damn good willpower to save that much food, Wash." Grif sighed, shaking his head a bit too exaggerated. He popped open the lid and took a seat next to Washington on the couch where Wash had previously fallen asleep.

"Food stays in the kitchen." he reminded Grif for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

"Fine, _mom._ " he groaned and got up.

"I'm not your mother."

"You sure act like it."

Neither of them said anything else. Mainly because Grif was sitting in the kitchen shoving leftover fake pasta into his maw and Wash had nothing else to add. He briefly looked at the clock inside his visor. _8:30 in the morning_. His eyes shot back in an instant, realizing he was late. And he was never late in his life. He stood up, knocking an empty coffee cup onto the ground. In his hurry, he tripped over Cabooses rifle, which shot confetti everywhere with a sad party sound. He rushed out the door before Grif even knew what had happened.


End file.
